


How Wrong Were We To Think That Immortality Meant Never Dying

by mXrtis



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Everyone is Dead, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Immortal Fake AH Crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 00:52:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5437376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mXrtis/pseuds/mXrtis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is just me writing about everyone in the crew dying.... Each person gets their own death scene; below is the first sentence of each one.</p><p>-</p><p>Dying was basic human instinct kicking in. Dying was the drop in your stomach that comes as the roller coaster starts to plummet down. Dying was one striking moment of carelessness; a coin spinning and spinning before landing on tails. Dying was getting too caught up in the moment; getting cocky. Dying was hitting water like concrete. Dying was staring into the eyes of someone you once knew, your brother in arms, as he points a pistol at your forehead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Wrong Were We To Think That Immortality Meant Never Dying

Dying was basic human instinct kicking in, causing Michael to drag himself away from where he hit the ground before he bleeds out. His raw, exposed nerves grating against the jagged sidewalk as Michael pulls himself in a fucked up type of army crawl. A chunk of his tibia jutting out of the back of his leg, a compound fracture; a pillar of ivory run red with blood. It was muttering ‘fuck, shit, fuck, oh god oh god’ over and over like a prayer; like a way to escape the pain. It was the pounding headache from the sound of police sirens surrounding him. The noise of bullets cutting through the air like one of his best knives. It was the world fading to black in a sea of jarring noises. It was waking up in a morgue, like waking up in a coffin; navigating your way out, naked and disoriented. It was standing on top of a building, waiting for a signal, and knowing exactly how it would feel if you jumped right now.

 

Dying was the drop in your stomach that comes as the roller coaster starts to plummet down. Jack gripping the steering wheel of her copter as tight as she can and trying her best to evade the mountain that’s coming up very soon. It was dive bombing into the side of a mountain. It was the sound of metal scraping against rocks like nails on a chalkboard; the helicopter being torn to shreds as it slid down the face of the Mount Chiliad. The smell of burning plastic thick in the air and smoke, drowning, choking, overwhelming. Her head slamming hard against a rock. It was the heat from the fire soaking into her skin and making her cycle through hot sweats and cold sweats. It was red hair matted with blood, it was the unmistakable smell of burning skin, it was being unable to eat barbecued pork because the smell was so FUCKING FAMILIAR. It was digging yourself out of a hollowed out skeleton of a helicopter after you wake up pinned under metal and smoldering embers.

 

Dying was one striking moment of carelessness; a coin spinning and spinning before landing on tails. It was Ray lining up for the perfect shot, barely pressing the trigger before something white hot hits him in the back of his neck. Leaving your back exposed was always a bad idea, but the Fake AH Crew was built on layer after layer of bad ideas. It was dropping your gun and hitting the ground of the roof. It was Ray missing the shot and possibly fucking over the whole goddamn crew. It was lying on top of a building, paralyzed from the bullet lodged in your neck, bleeding out and being eaten alive with guilt. It was a comm you couldn’t use, fading in and out with popping static and everyone screaming; _(RAY? RAY? WHERE ARE YOU?) (SHIT GUYS, HE’S GONE QUIET) (DOES ANYONE SEE HIM?)_. It was coming home with your sniper rifle slung over your back like a dog with its tail between its legs. It was keeping the bullet that your body rejected like a trophy, a reminder; an altar to a deathless god.

 

Dying was getting too caught up in the moment; getting cocky. It was Ryan, standing in the center of a pile of dead bodies with his hair messy and blood mixing with his face paint. It was being the king of the fucking world on a throne of corpses, drenched in blood like a modern day Elizabeth Bathory. It was sirens coming at you from every angle. A grin baring sharp white teeth. It was Ryan taking out a sticky bomb, placing it flat against his stomach. Red and blue lights casting wild shadows on his face as Los Santos’ finest pace around him with drawn guns. It was the press of a button followed by a _beep beep beep_ and the police officers running in vain. It was having chunks of you thrown everywhere. Painting the streets with your blood to claim it as your territory. If Ryan was going to hell, he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take as many of those fuckers with him as he can. It was waking up days later on a bench, with the memories of the last heist blurred and torn, missing bits and pieces and overlaid with sepia. It was looking in the glass of a store window and not knowing who you are without your facepaint, your mask.

 

Dying was hitting water like concrete. It was choppy waves cresting over Gavin’s head. His arms cutting into water, trying to keep afloat after being thrown from the back of a boat. It was the feeling of limbs being heavier than bricks. It was sinking to the bottom like a stone, an imperfect skip that was always going to fail. It was racing thoughts and scattered ideas. It was water in your lungs and eyes opened wide. It was Gavin frantically glancing through the blurred filter of water. Bubbles pouring from his lips and nose and rising to the surface. It was tunnel vision closing in on the murky green-blue void. It was someone prodding Gavin, forcing him awake. The sharpness of the sun and the salt crusted in his hair. The sand in his mouth, rubbing against his teeth. It was a complete stranger asking if you’re okay and helping you up even though just days ago you were wreaking havoc on their city.

 

Dying was staring into the eyes of someone you once knew, your brother in arms, as he points a pistol at your forehead. It was Geoff making some kind of pleading expression. It was dripping sweat and suffocating anxiety. It was trying to talk his way off the ledge. It was watching the people you love moving on to try to escape a similar fate; despite knowing that they weren’t leaving you for good, it always kind of hurt. It was being pushed down to your knees at gunpoint; being shot in the head, execution style. It was dying in a secluded alleyway, tucked deep enough away in Los Santos that it would take days for someone to find your body. The most in-fucking-dignant way to go. It was being left to the vultures of the city, like you were nothing better than the scum of the earth. It was three new people making your hit list. It was coming home to a patchwork family waiting in a shared apartment. It was tight hugs from ruthless murderers and assuring words from professional conmen.

 

Dying got really old really fast. No matter how many times it happened, the pain was still just as intense. It was blinding blotches of black and red layered over double vision. It was shattered bones and chunks of skin cut off. It was a chess match with mortality that you were always destined to lose. It was glorious and miserable; empowering and terrifying. It was mutual drunkenness on liquid luck; a pounding hangover from deathlessness. But the trail of bodies always paved a way to a fucked up kind of home.

 

 


End file.
